The Spread

It was Christmas of 1976, and he’d been amazed at the spread of gifts under the tree, and at how his parents had found stuff he’d never seen or heard of, cool stuff. He’d been obsessively flipping through the thin pages of the Sears Wish Book for a month, but still he was surprised, overwhelmed at how well they’d done.

He hardly knew where to start, but he waded in, putting batteries in toys, listening to new noises and watching the flashing lights.

They’d worked together to do this, he imagined. They’d worked as one in the interest of overwhelming him with gifts, even when they couldn’t work together as a couple. They didn’t know he knew. He’d crept around corners, stepping as close to the walls as possible where the creaky floorboards might give less. What they were talking about he didn’t understand, but he knew it was serious. He knew that sometimes he’d be rounded up to go with Mom to a hotel out of the blue. Nothing ugly, nothing he could put a finger on. But as much as he loved to go to hotels, he knew something was wrong, something wasn’t being said.

And the spread of gifts felt like compensation to him, even at that age.

Mini-trampoline, robotic tank, games, puzzles, books, and a cool new superhero figure he’d seen on TV. His hands were interchangeable, could be swapped out for cool tools. Drills, hooks, clubs… yeah, this guy was great!

He started trying the different accessories, and the possibilities were thrilling! This was the highlight of the day, this brand new, utterly cool toy no other kid he knew had.

And it snapped.

One of the attachments broke off, leaving part stuck in the arm.

Dad tried to fix it, but there just wasn’t any getting the piece out or fixing the attachment. Five minutes of playing with the toy and it was rendered useless, thrown away.

***

Twenty-nine years later the metaphor caught up with him and overwhelmed him, and he wanted to cry just like he did that day, maybe more.